


'til the morning light

by funvee



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, fandom 100 challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funvee/pseuds/funvee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos takes a knife to the shoulder for Athos. Aramis stitches him back up, but Athos refuses to thank him.</p>
<p>For the Fandom 100 challenge, prompt #12: stabbing. Lani picked it out of the list for me, so this is dedicated to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'til the morning light

The knife came out of nowhere -- there was nothing in the man's hand before but now, now there was an arc of silver as it descended towards one of his closest friends, one of his brothers. Porthos didn't have the luxury of time to think about how to act. He didn't have time to consider ways to get them all out safely. Porthos did the only thing he could -- he bodychecked Athos out of the way. He had just enough time to watch his brother bounce off the wall behind them, before his attention was directed elsewhere. The knife connected, shredding through his clothes and the world narrowed down to two things: pain and the sounds of his own harsh breathing.

The knife jumped off one of his bones and tore down his shoulder in an agonizing slow motion. A scream ripped itself from his throat, echoing against the stone walls in the courtyard they were ambushed in.

He screamed again, just as the ground swelled up to meet him.

\----

"He's lucky. Very lucky."

The voice is quiet from behind what must have been the door to his bedroom. He thought, vaguely, that it was Aramis talking. He did always patch him up after he got himself injured. Aramis never sounded quite like this, though. There was never that quiet horror whispering through his voice as he spoke to Athos about how he was doing. Porthos had heard those conversations more times than he'd actually admit to -- they normally thought he was out when they spoke about him.

But...it was nice, in a strange way, to hear how they said his name when they thought he couldn't hear. He opened his eyes slowly, peeling them apart with great care in case the world was too bright for him. It was mostly dark in his room though -- the fire in the grate was the only source of light.

Once he was sure the light wasn't going to sting his eyes, Porthos glanced around without moving. He'd learned from experience that to move before Aramis allowed him to usually meant a second round of stitches in already sore flesh.

They'd laid him down on his stomach, presumably so Aramis could reach the wound in his shoulder. He could feel the pull of the stitches, a dull ache that was slowly starting to grow the longer he was conscious. He took a deep breath in through his nose and tried to ignore it. He wanted to hear what they were saying out in the hall.

"That... that could have killed Porthos," Aramis said, though Porthos could barely hear him from where he was pressed against his mattress.

His name fell off Aramis's tongue like he was something precious, something small to be guarded and protected. It made him smile into his pillow, hidden from view should anyone slip into his room.

"He pushed me out of the way," Athos answered, and Porthos could feel the self-blame in Athos's voice. It made him want to rise to his feet, barrel out the door, seize Athos in his hands and shake him. Athos was not to blame here. The only blame lay on the wielder of the knife.

He wondered, somewhat blankly, if anyone cared to save it. He would like to see what had almost killed him.

"To save you," Aramis countered from behind the door. "He did it to save you."

"I can take a knife just as well as he can."

Porthos growled into his mattress. That wasn't the _point_. Any of them could take a knife if they had to. The point was that they didn't _have to_. If he could, if he had a choice between them and him...he'd take the knife for his brothers every. single. time.

He couldn't hear Aramis's response -- it must have been whispered right into Athos's personal space. He didn't need to hear it to know that Aramis was chastising him. Porthos approved, though he knew with all his heart that Athos would continue to blame himself. That was Athos's way -- he thought himself responsible for every little thing that went wrong in his own life, whether that be the injury of a friend to a criminal they were escorting getting away. Porthos did his best to distract him from whatever dark thoughts that sunk their claws into Athos's brain. Sometimes he succeeded, sometimes all he could do was be there to carry him home.

"I need to check on him," Aramis murmured, just as the door knob turned. As the door opened, the light from the room outside sent the shadows in the room running for the split second it took Aramis to enter. He shut the door behind himself with a click.

Porthos flicked his eyes up to Aramis as soon as he was fully into the room and saw what he feared -- anxiety was etched into every line on his face.

"You're awake!" Aramis exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. Porthos grunted in response and smiling as best as he could. He tried to remain still, tried to resist the urge to shift, to roll over or sit up. Aramis must have seen something in his face because he added, "Don't you dare think of moving yet -- you've got over fifteen stitches in your back and I'm not doing them again, you hear?"

"Yes, _sir_ ," Porthos answered, a cheeky grin pulling at his lips. Aramis shot him an unamused look. "Where's Athos?" he asked, meeting Aramis's eyes before looking behind him at the doorway.

Aramis frowned, and shook his head. "He's out there. Self-medicating." He pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat himself in it. Aramis stared down at him, a sad smile across his lips. He placed a warm hand on Porthos's shoulder -- more for himself than for Porthos, though he appreciated it just the same.

"He's blaming himself, isn't he?" Porthos asked, even though he knew the answer already.

"Of course," Aramis answered, with a slight laugh. "Thinks he should have taken the knife instead of you."

Porthos snorted. "He's an idiot," He said, not without love.

"He is, but that's his way of...dealing, I suppose," Aramis murmured, shrugging. He brushed a thumb gently across Porthos's uninjured shoulder. Porthos could feel the soft movement, the scratch of Aramis's callouses against his skin. "Don't worry about him right now -- how are you feeling?"

Porthos considered the question for a moment. His shoulder slowly ached, a dull thing that thudded with every beat of his heart. He could feel the tug of the stitches in his skin, the way they pulled on his shoulder as he breathed. He was more exhausted than he'd ever remembered being before. His body ached like he'd fallen off a horse, but...he was alive.

"Sore. Tired as hell. Shoulder hurts," he answered, when he'd finally figured out all the sensations he was feeling.

Aramis nodded, smiling as if these were good things. "Good, good," He replied, sliding his hand up from Porthos's shoulder and into his hair. He played with a curl at the base of his neck. Porthos closed his eyes and enjoyed the way it felt to have Aramis's hand on him.

"Did you keep the knife?" Porthos asked, after a few minutes of silence. The hand on his neck stilled, and he could feel Aramis freeze up next to him. Porthos waited, breathing slowly but steadily, until Aramis answered.

"...It's in the other room. I...didn't...I didn't want to look at it," Aramis whispered. Porthos could hear the hurt in his voice, and didn't press it further. Aramis resumed petting along Porthos's neck and shoulders, soft reassuring touches that calmed the ache in his bones. "We caught the man who...did that to you," Aramis said, after a minute, struggling with the words.

Porthos nodded silently. The man was caught -- there was no danger to anyone else. He closed his eyes for a moment and let Aramis's hand in his hair soothe him.

"Will you tell Athos it wasn't his fault?" Porthos asked, eyes still shut.

"You could tell me yourself," Athos's voice echoed through the room. Porthos opened his eyes in time to see Athos fully enter the room and move towards the end of his bed. He couldn't see him in that spot -- which was probably why Athos was there.

"It wasn't your fault," Porthos repeated, glaring at the door.

"The knife was aimed at _me_. He was trying to stab _me_ ," Athos retorted, his voice distorted with what Porthos could only assume was self-hatred. He'd heard it on Athos's voice before, and it was always followed by a particularly stupid statement, or a self-endangering action.

"Yeah, and I pushed you out of the way," Porthos said, giving into the urge to roll his eyes. Trying to tell Athos that something wasn't his fault was as good as arguing with a brick wall. No matter what he said, Athos wouldn't believe him.

Athos remained silent, and frustratingly out of Porthos's line of sight.

"Both of you are idiots," Aramis pointed out, sounding almost bored but rather fond, nonetheless.

"Shut up," Porthos and Athos said in unison, without turning to look at him.

Aramis raised his hands in defeat, returning to picking at the hem of his shirt.

"You could just say thank you, you know," Porthos offered, his eyes half closed. The ache in his shoulder was starting to become too much, and sleep was once again sounding like the best thing in the world. He didn't want to sleep, though, without Athos understanding that it wasn't his fault. That in itself was rather optimistic, but Porthos thought he could manage it.

He heard Athos snort. "Thank you for getting yourself seriously injured?"

Porthos let out a sigh. "How about "Thank you for not letting me get hurt."?"

"I'm not thanking you for hurting yourself."

"I didn't stab myself in the shoulder," Porthos said, frustrated.

"But you knew....you KNEW you'd get the knife when you pushed me out of the way. So...you as good as stabbed yourself," Athos murmured, voice quiet. He didn't sound convinced of his own argument, though, so Porthos was counting that as a slight win.

"I didn't care about that," Porthos admitted, closing his eyes and settling into his pillow again. "I didn't want you to get hurt and I managed that. So thank me or don't, but I'm glad I did it," he added, sleep closing in on him, pulling him under between one heartbeat and the next. His breathing evened out slowly, settling into a relaxed, calm rise and fall of his chest.

Aramis raised his eyebrows and turned on his chair to stare at Athos. "Are you going to thank the man or just wallow in self-pity instead?" He asked, quietly.

Athos gave him a look and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall.

Aramis sighed, and stood up from his chair. He nodded towards Porthos on the bed before saying, "He needs all the sleep he can get. Don't wake him." He left the room, then, leaving Athos alone with an unconscious Porthos.

He watched his sleeping friend for a moment, eyes lingering on the ugly mess of stitches on his shoulder. Aramis had done the best job possible, but the knife had cut a jagged rip through Porthos's skin. The scar would be thick line on his dark skin, and Athos knew that from that moment on, whenever he saw it, guilt would seize hold of him.

Porthos had gotten himself stabbed for him. He had been willing to die for him -- that action as good as screamed it. Porthos had admitted that he'd do it again, that it had been worth it.

Athos didn't think so.

He moved to the chair Aramis had vacated and sat carefully down, staring at his friend for a beat before staring at his own hands in his lap.

"You almost died today," He whispered. "You have no idea how close you came."

Athos turned and glanced at his friend. Porthos's eyelashes twitched against his cheek, and Athos stilled, hoping he wasn't about to wake up. He waited a few moments, watching Porthos silently, trying not to imagine a world without his big warm-hearted friend.

"Don't die for me. I'm not worth it," Athos whispered. The world could do without him. He wasn't sure it could do without Porthos. Who would look after Aramis? Who would quietly stand in front of D'artagnan when the boy got too mouthy at someone? Who would hold the group together when they all fell apart?

"Yes, you are," Porthos answered, still mostly asleep. The words stuck to the roof of his mouth, his voice gruff. "Now shut up, or leave, I'm tired."

Athos's eyes went wide -- how much had Porthos heard? He panicked for a moment -- emotions were not his strongest suit. He wasn't good at talking about how he felt, and certainly wasn't good at telling people how he felt about them.

"Stop brooding so loud," Porthos added, sniffling into his pillow. 

"Oh -- go to sleep, will you?" Athos murmured, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

Porthos's lips twitched into a smile as he fell back into unconsciousness.

Athos stayed with him, watching Porthos breathe until Aramis came to relieve him. He didn't speak again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr.](http://drclairefraser.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> boo.


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